I read an article yesterday that inspired me to be a better mother to my daughters. If you are not a mother of daughters, there is still inspiration to be found regarding any important young lady in your life: nieces, little sister, students, etc.
Gruver, N. (2003). "That's not fair!" Nurturing girls' natural feminism. In R. Dicker & A. Piepmeier's (Eds). Catching a wave: Reclaiming feminism for the 21st century. Boston: Northeastern University Press.
Gruver's observation is that while most young women do not identify as feminists, many are. Gruver maintains that every young girl she has ever met believes in everyone having equal rights, including herself. Girls can see injustices more clearly.
Now to the parts that spoke to my soul. Women must listen to girls. Girls believe the reality of their experience. Why do they lose their belief as they get older? They get used to adult indifference to what they have to say. Girls often get the message that they need to a fit the mold of the way things are.
Gruver cautions us to girls' sensitivity to unspoken messages conveyed. We are often unaware of how much power we wield, and without realizing it, send the signal that what the girl in front of us is saying is unimportant.
"It is cliche to tell girls to believe in their dreams. In order to do that with any kind of credibility, we first have to believe in our own dreams. This means we have to remember what our own dreams were and are" (Gruver, 2003, p. 113).
Did you soak that in? Because what Gruver says next is the heart of the matter. When the girls in our lives see us doing that, they watch how women handle triumphs and losses. When they see us passionate about what we believe in, when they see us working for justice, they see that they can too.
Adolescence is a time when girls lose their way. If the women in their lives are brave enough to be truthful with them, to let them see their own struggles and not hide them, girls have a better chance of being able to keep hearing their inner voice. They have a better chance of weathering the storms of growing up when they belong to a community of women who are close to them.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Votum
*
Now, after living more of life, I see something achingly beautiful in prayer candles. All together, they are a lovely picture of our collective appeal to Something bigger than us. I wonder what each of those candles represent to the heart whose hope is pinned on it. Was the votive lit in hopes of safeguarding a baby yet to be born? An appeal to heal a sick loved one? In memory of someone dear? Little flickers of faith; they whisper from the depths of souls.
At 16, I didn't know that peace can be found in laying your heart on an altar. Young people hoist burdens almost effortlessly, seek answers ruthlessly, and admit helplessness infrequently. Lighting a candle would have been an exercise in futility to my way of thinking. What did it accomplish? God can hear you if you light a candle or not! Why spend the buck?
Faith, hope, and love are not of the kind of substances that can be physically gathered up like flowers to put in someone else's hands. We sometimes express them symbolically, the way an artist gives form to ideas and emotions with paint on a canvas. A woman's gesture of breaking open an expensive jar of perfume, using its contents to wash Jesus' feet with her hair, was that kind of expression. And Jesus thought it was beautiful.
* picture from Amanda's Etsy Shop
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
It's My Party
This year I will turn 31. I will also be visiting Uganda in August.
What do those two things have in common?
I have decided showing up in Uganda empty handed is like the lamest thing ever. I mean, I give on a monthly basis but I want to do something special for the grandmothers that I love so much.
For my birthday this year I have started a campaign to raise enough money to build a grandmother a house. It only costs $700 to build a house with metal roof to keep out the elements.
Visit the Nyaka AIDS Foundation page to view photos of their current standard of living by clicking here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=235422&id=84413107212
Jackson once told me a powerful story that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
It rains daily in Uganda. The conditions of the homes that many of our grandmothers live in is very poor. If you've seen the picture, you can tell that water would run right through the roof. There is no sleep for a family being rained on. The grandmothers will ball up school uniforms under their grandchildren on the floor and huddle all together to keep them dry for school in the morning.
Did you get that?
Education is so important to these families that they will lay on the ground huddled over their school uniforms to keep them clean and dry for the next day. They will lay in the rain.
Because this is my last day to post on Nyaka, I wanted to share that story and the link to my Birthday Page.
http://wishes.causes.com/wishes/251302?bws=fb_stream_wish
Jackson and I were joking that I could build a subdivision and name it Taj Mahal.
Good sense of humor!
It's my party and I will build a subdivision if I want to!
What do those two things have in common?
I have decided showing up in Uganda empty handed is like the lamest thing ever. I mean, I give on a monthly basis but I want to do something special for the grandmothers that I love so much.
For my birthday this year I have started a campaign to raise enough money to build a grandmother a house. It only costs $700 to build a house with metal roof to keep out the elements.
Visit the Nyaka AIDS Foundation page to view photos of their current standard of living by clicking here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=235422&id=84413107212
Jackson once told me a powerful story that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
It rains daily in Uganda. The conditions of the homes that many of our grandmothers live in is very poor. If you've seen the picture, you can tell that water would run right through the roof. There is no sleep for a family being rained on. The grandmothers will ball up school uniforms under their grandchildren on the floor and huddle all together to keep them dry for school in the morning.
Did you get that?
Education is so important to these families that they will lay on the ground huddled over their school uniforms to keep them clean and dry for the next day. They will lay in the rain.
Because this is my last day to post on Nyaka, I wanted to share that story and the link to my Birthday Page.
http://wishes.causes.com/wishes/251302?bws=fb_stream_wish
Jackson and I were joking that I could build a subdivision and name it Taj Mahal.
Good sense of humor!
It's my party and I will build a subdivision if I want to!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Having Your Lifestyle and Eating the Consequences Too
In an effort not to drag out these fashion and feminism articles for those of you who do not enjoy this, I announce that this is the last article summary of the type I will be posting for awhile. The next installment in the series will be my abstract.
Groeneveld, E. (2010). Be a feminist or just dress like one: BUST, fashion, and feminism as lifestyle. Journal of Gender Studies, 31, 179-190.
Groeneveld critiques the third wave feminist magazine BUST’s reclaiming of feminist stance towards fashion. The magazine endorses the idea that feminism should not dictate what women wear; dress is a personal choice and an expression of self. Groeneveld acknowledges that the second wave feminist stance being pushed against does not allow for the creative and fun side of fashion. Groeneveld also examines the implications of the third wave views advanced by BUST, noting the magazine’s desire to serve as an entry point to the women’s movement and create a more accessible brand of feminism. Her thesis is that BUST’s position validates stereotypes of second wave feminists rather than recognizing the complexity of their position, which serves to undermine feminism. The second part of the thesis is that “lifestyle feminism” might draw women in, but it also limits examination of systems of institutionalized discrimination. Groeneveld shows how the second wave feminists had legitimate concerns about capitalist consumerism, and that choice exists on levels other than individual consumption.
Groeneveld’s discussion is interesting to me because she explores the intersection of fashion and feminism and second and third wave views. She illustrates that there is more to consider in fashion choices than creativity and self-expression. Groeneveld argues that while there is value in the assertion that fashion and feminism are not exclusive of one another and also in inviting a larger audience of women to join the feminist conversation, but that this cannot be done to the exclusion of ignoring injustice and politics. Women cannot separate themselves from the political implication of their actions, no matter what the intention of their actions.
Groeneveld, E. (2010). Be a feminist or just dress like one: BUST, fashion, and feminism as lifestyle. Journal of Gender Studies, 31, 179-190.
Groeneveld critiques the third wave feminist magazine BUST’s reclaiming of feminist stance towards fashion. The magazine endorses the idea that feminism should not dictate what women wear; dress is a personal choice and an expression of self. Groeneveld acknowledges that the second wave feminist stance being pushed against does not allow for the creative and fun side of fashion. Groeneveld also examines the implications of the third wave views advanced by BUST, noting the magazine’s desire to serve as an entry point to the women’s movement and create a more accessible brand of feminism. Her thesis is that BUST’s position validates stereotypes of second wave feminists rather than recognizing the complexity of their position, which serves to undermine feminism. The second part of the thesis is that “lifestyle feminism” might draw women in, but it also limits examination of systems of institutionalized discrimination. Groeneveld shows how the second wave feminists had legitimate concerns about capitalist consumerism, and that choice exists on levels other than individual consumption.
Groeneveld’s discussion is interesting to me because she explores the intersection of fashion and feminism and second and third wave views. She illustrates that there is more to consider in fashion choices than creativity and self-expression. Groeneveld argues that while there is value in the assertion that fashion and feminism are not exclusive of one another and also in inviting a larger audience of women to join the feminist conversation, but that this cannot be done to the exclusion of ignoring injustice and politics. Women cannot separate themselves from the political implication of their actions, no matter what the intention of their actions.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Good Job!
First, a reminder that a week from today we'll have our first book club discussion on Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Today has already been, and will continue to be, one of those that tax me like New York state does. Nothing major, you know, just a thousand little things that require the attention and coordination and sacrifice of a, well -
woman.
We are so strong, ladies. Think of things you made it through in your life that you never thought you could. The big stuff. A break up. A death. An illness of a loved one. A financial catastrophe. Then there's the smaller stuff. That awful semester in college. Months of a colicky baby. Weeks when it seemed like your house was going to fall apart with all the repairs that kept coming up. Then there are the things we do on a daily basis. If we sat down and chronicled the details of our days we would probably be amazed at all we accomplish.
Women juggle a lot of responsibility. We work hard. We endure pain. We keep going.
Congratulations on getting through this week. Maybe you had sick kids. Maybe your kids had you shuttling around town like a taxi cab driver. Maybe your boss was mean and hard to please at work. Maybe you discovered you ran out of money for the month, and darn it if March isn't the longest month of the year. As women, we acknowledge the volume of unseen burdens we all shoulder. No one may praise you for getting all of your laundry done this week or thank you for that little nice thing you went out of your way to do, so I will say: You did a good job this week. The world is a better place because you are here.
Today has already been, and will continue to be, one of those that tax me like New York state does. Nothing major, you know, just a thousand little things that require the attention and coordination and sacrifice of a, well -
woman.
We are so strong, ladies. Think of things you made it through in your life that you never thought you could. The big stuff. A break up. A death. An illness of a loved one. A financial catastrophe. Then there's the smaller stuff. That awful semester in college. Months of a colicky baby. Weeks when it seemed like your house was going to fall apart with all the repairs that kept coming up. Then there are the things we do on a daily basis. If we sat down and chronicled the details of our days we would probably be amazed at all we accomplish.
Women juggle a lot of responsibility. We work hard. We endure pain. We keep going.
Congratulations on getting through this week. Maybe you had sick kids. Maybe your kids had you shuttling around town like a taxi cab driver. Maybe your boss was mean and hard to please at work. Maybe you discovered you ran out of money for the month, and darn it if March isn't the longest month of the year. As women, we acknowledge the volume of unseen burdens we all shoulder. No one may praise you for getting all of your laundry done this week or thank you for that little nice thing you went out of your way to do, so I will say: You did a good job this week. The world is a better place because you are here.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
New Developments
Chandra Mohanty is a feminist writer I really like. In "Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourse," she talks about how Western feminists have created a "third world woman," a monolithic, homogeneous and singular figure who is generally considered to be ignorant, poor, victimized, etc. The referent in this is the supposedly educated, free Western woman. This generalization and ignorance of the many conflicting and varied layers of existence for Third World women holds them in the status of "object." The word "developing" implies that they are not as evolved as the rest of the world, and assigns them a value that reinforces the inequity of first/third world connections.
Why am I bringing this up? When we hear of desperate stories out of Third World countries, we often respond from a position of wanting to swoop in and fix everything for "those poor people." There is no denying that there are people in the Third World who are oppressed, and that we need to stand with them against that oppression. What this article reminded me was the way in which we think of these fellow humans. In reaching out a hand to help them, we often shove them back down. When people become the objectified other, relationships become dysfunctional and hurtful. In a book called When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty Without Hurting the Poor and Yourself, we are reminded that we are all broken in some way, and need healing in some area of our life. First world people are broken in different ways, but broken, nonetheless.
I love the way Tashmica introduces us to her friends at Nyaka. We meet them as the people they are, who have great ideas, love to sing and dance, work hard, like getting letters, make lovely art, and worry about their kids. The grandmothers are inspiring women. I wonder how I would respond if life's circumstances left me penniless and caring for seven grandchildren at an age when I could be kicking back and enjoying retirement.
Third World people are not the only ones we see as "underdeveloped"; we often dismiss people in our cities, in our neighborhoods, in our families. Sometimes I relate to my children in ways that assumes I occupy a higher state of existence and chip away at their dignity. I am broken too, and though I am their mother and have responsibility for them, I am also still in need of further development. Sometimes, if I let it happen, my children inspire me. When we allow people we think we should bring healing to bring healing or inspiration to us, we are treating them as equals, acknowledging their unique value and dignity.
I wonder who I will let inspire me or bring a bit of healing to my soul today....
Why am I bringing this up? When we hear of desperate stories out of Third World countries, we often respond from a position of wanting to swoop in and fix everything for "those poor people." There is no denying that there are people in the Third World who are oppressed, and that we need to stand with them against that oppression. What this article reminded me was the way in which we think of these fellow humans. In reaching out a hand to help them, we often shove them back down. When people become the objectified other, relationships become dysfunctional and hurtful. In a book called When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty Without Hurting the Poor and Yourself, we are reminded that we are all broken in some way, and need healing in some area of our life. First world people are broken in different ways, but broken, nonetheless.
I love the way Tashmica introduces us to her friends at Nyaka. We meet them as the people they are, who have great ideas, love to sing and dance, work hard, like getting letters, make lovely art, and worry about their kids. The grandmothers are inspiring women. I wonder how I would respond if life's circumstances left me penniless and caring for seven grandchildren at an age when I could be kicking back and enjoying retirement.
Third World people are not the only ones we see as "underdeveloped"; we often dismiss people in our cities, in our neighborhoods, in our families. Sometimes I relate to my children in ways that assumes I occupy a higher state of existence and chip away at their dignity. I am broken too, and though I am their mother and have responsibility for them, I am also still in need of further development. Sometimes, if I let it happen, my children inspire me. When we allow people we think we should bring healing to bring healing or inspiration to us, we are treating them as equals, acknowledging their unique value and dignity.
I wonder who I will let inspire me or bring a bit of healing to my soul today....
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Made in _____
Hale, A. & Wills, J. (2005). Threads of labour: Garment industry supply chains from the workers’ perspective. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing.
This book discusses the globalization of the garment industry and the effects on its mostly female workforce from poor countries in the southern hemisphere. Large garment companies no longer have big factories on their home soil. Instead, they subcontract out to supply chains with the lowest bid. Women that work for these smaller subcontracted companies often endure terrible working conditions including long hours, forced overtime, few bathroom breaks, unsafe and unhealthy conditions, and sexual harassment. The authors’ thesis is that helping these workers unite and organize will change their conditions. A globalized workplace demands a globalized effort to fight for workers’ rights. Hale and Willis provide research collected from different companies in different countries to make their case.
The fashion industry drives the demand for a constant supply of new and affordable clothing. This book demonstrates the vulnerability of women’s position in the world, as well as the vulnerability of people living in the Third World. The authors paint a vivid picture of women’s plight, but also their courage and strength evident in their efforts to win better working conditions. In this system, buying garments is participation, but most participants are unaware of the connection between consumer and the worker at the bottom of the supply chain.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
To Uganda
Today I am blogging under achiever style.
Today has been a day and a half and it's not yet over. Nothing terrible. Just one of those days that started with plan B and is now on plan F. I wanted to share with you all another amazing project of the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project. I wrote about it last year weaving in stories from my life and our commitment to Tay, our Compassion child.
I also have my own Pen Pal whose letter just left today. *smile*
We currently have a Young Hero Program that acts as a service learning project for students of all ages. Once the project is completed, children in the United States are granted the privilege of becoming Pen Pals with the children at Nyaka and/or Kutamba School. It is an opportunity to broaden all of their horizons and it inspires me every time I am able to place letters into bags full on their way out the door.
To Uganda with love,
Monday, March 21, 2011
Mixin' in Some Quantum Physics
Parkins, I. (2008). Building a feminist theory of fashion: Karen Barad’s agential realism. Australian Feminist Studies, 23, 501-515.
Agential realism: yes, it's a bit intimidating. But it's worth the effort. Hopefully I am not butchering the intended message.
Parkins examines the relationship between garment and wearer, and where the power in that relationship lies. She speaks of this relationship as dynamic: clothing can translate a wearer’s meaning, and women make negotiations with garments. What will I look like in this? What will it say about me? Parkins reminds us that fashion choices, while dependent on the individual, also possess socially situated meaning. In other words, a garment has a life and meaning of its own.
Parkins examines the relationship between garment and wearer, and where the power in that relationship lies. She speaks of this relationship as dynamic: clothing can translate a wearer’s meaning, and women make negotiations with garments. What will I look like in this? What will it say about me? Parkins reminds us that fashion choices, while dependent on the individual, also possess socially situated meaning. In other words, a garment has a life and meaning of its own.
Parkins also presents fashion as an industry. As an industry, it is constantly outdating itself in order to generate profit. While women decide what meaning their clothing has to them and conveys for them, they also wear meaning imparted by the industry. If negotiated well, fashion can be a bridge between culture and feminism, if one can exist in the tensions and ambiguities.
Parkins’ article is relevant because she positions fashion as both an industry and a medium of personal expression. She uses feminism to connect culture and feminism and recognize that there is a way for the two to communicate. Parkins’ article made intriguing points about the strength of women’s connections to fashion. She advises feminists that if is necessary to recognize the strongholds of fashion in women’s lives, and to use their position to help women discern which attachments are useful and which are harmful.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Heads Up
Ok, ok, so Saturday is becoming a catch-all day. I forgot to give you an important piece of info yesterday. Must have been all that wine;)
An new feature is going to be added ... our book club/book review feature. The first Friday of each month, Amanda will write a review of a book that fits with the spirit of the blog, and welcome discussion. The rest of us will get a heads up in advance to have time to read it if we would like to join in. You can treat this feature as a detailed description of books you would like to read in the future, or you can see it as a virtual book club.
For April 1, (I promise this is not an April Fool's Day joke), Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. I'm looking forward to this - it will be fun! Invite your friends! :)
An new feature is going to be added ... our book club/book review feature. The first Friday of each month, Amanda will write a review of a book that fits with the spirit of the blog, and welcome discussion. The rest of us will get a heads up in advance to have time to read it if we would like to join in. You can treat this feature as a detailed description of books you would like to read in the future, or you can see it as a virtual book club.
For April 1, (I promise this is not an April Fool's Day joke), Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. I'm looking forward to this - it will be fun! Invite your friends! :)
Friday, March 18, 2011
Cheers!
TWO feminist articles in one week - whew! How about a glass of wine right about now? ;)
Wine is not exclusively girly by any means. There are many men in the world who can appreciate wine. But I am thinking of those great occasions where I was sitting in the company of dear friends, sharing a bottle of wine. Girl talk and wine belong together. Plus, wine is just pretty. Wine bottles, the way it looks in the glass. The beauty of where the grapes grow. Wine and coffee and tea - I love them for their connection to the soil they grow in. You can't just chemically produce those beverages. They have history and substance and connections and tradition.
I'm not a wine expert: I like what I like. I like New York wine. I live less than half an hour from one of the Fingerlakes of central New York. Wine heaven. The land is half of the charm.
*This is Lamoreaux Landings Vineyard, my favorite ever vineyard. They practice organic, sustainable farming and are pretty local to me. And they make the best Riesling on earth. If you've never had a Fingerlakes Riesling, you are missing out. There's something about this region that is Riesling magic. Actually, the magic probably happens when you are sitting on a porch sipping a glass, overlooking the sun setting over one of these gorgeous lakes and surrounding hills.
Lamoreaux has a decent Cab Franc, but the reds of the region aren't as praiseworthy as the whites. I've had some nice Argentinian Malbecs and a killer Spanish Rioja. My new favorite red, however, is Layer Cake Shiraz. I'm not exclusively a red or white leaning gal. They each have their occasions. Reds are kind of pasta/winter dinners around the table for hours wines. Whites are grilled food/sitting on the deck until the sun sets wines. I haven't opened a white for awhile. But I saw a few slats of my deck today, a few patches of grass in my yard, a robin, and the sun! Wine on the deck times are coming soon...
There are times when I sit and drink a glass of wine alone with a book in the evening. Or evenings when I'm cooking a big elaborate dinner when I pour a glass and turn up my music. Those aren't my favorite ways to drink wine, though. My favorite is a bottle shared amongst friends with laughter and conversation.
What is your favorite wine or favorite wine memory? Cheers - it's Friday!
*photos taken by my daughter Molly
Wine is not exclusively girly by any means. There are many men in the world who can appreciate wine. But I am thinking of those great occasions where I was sitting in the company of dear friends, sharing a bottle of wine. Girl talk and wine belong together. Plus, wine is just pretty. Wine bottles, the way it looks in the glass. The beauty of where the grapes grow. Wine and coffee and tea - I love them for their connection to the soil they grow in. You can't just chemically produce those beverages. They have history and substance and connections and tradition.
I'm not a wine expert: I like what I like. I like New York wine. I live less than half an hour from one of the Fingerlakes of central New York. Wine heaven. The land is half of the charm.
Lamoreaux has a decent Cab Franc, but the reds of the region aren't as praiseworthy as the whites. I've had some nice Argentinian Malbecs and a killer Spanish Rioja. My new favorite red, however, is Layer Cake Shiraz. I'm not exclusively a red or white leaning gal. They each have their occasions. Reds are kind of pasta/winter dinners around the table for hours wines. Whites are grilled food/sitting on the deck until the sun sets wines. I haven't opened a white for awhile. But I saw a few slats of my deck today, a few patches of grass in my yard, a robin, and the sun! Wine on the deck times are coming soon...
There are times when I sit and drink a glass of wine alone with a book in the evening. Or evenings when I'm cooking a big elaborate dinner when I pour a glass and turn up my music. Those aren't my favorite ways to drink wine, though. My favorite is a bottle shared amongst friends with laughter and conversation.
*photos taken by my daughter Molly
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Western Fashion For All
The posts schedules are written in sand, not stone:) My mind is bursting with fashion articles at the moment, so I might as well plunge ahead. The next article takes us in a different direction. It seemed a semi-logical next step since we talked about Cosmo editor Hurley Brown. On a side note, I find it interesting that the Latin American version of the magazine adopts Hurley Brown's hated-by-second- wave-feminist-expression "Cosmo girl"as its title.
di Casanova, E. (2003). Women's magazines in Ecuador: Re-reading "la Chica Cosmo." Studies in Latin American popular culture, 22, 89-102.
In Ecuador, fashion is for the upper class, the privileged, di Casanova tells us. La Chica Cosmo is the Western magazine Cosmopolitan's attempt to create global consumers. di Casanova has two major criticisms of this magazine and the Western fashion industry. First, she asserts that there is a deliberate attempt to exploit the middle class female, appealing to her to distinguish herself from her lower class peers and develop style and consumption habits like her upper class peers. Of course, middle class status is more precarious than upper class status.
di Casanova's criticism is most directed at the glorification of European culture and looks. Selected Latin American models have decidedly "white" features and are displayed with European trappings. She points out that this underscores racist messages that dark skin and Indian features are not desirable. The whole idea of Western fashion imposing its values on Latin American women uncovers the legacy of colonialism. di Casanova fingers Western fashion as an agent of Northern Imperialism.
di Casanova's message is useful in discussing that fashion does not exist solely for women's enjoyment. Marketing and production have other motives. Some of the things di Casanova argues are the same criticisms of Western fashion magazines for Western women: certain qualities are deemed beautiful and desirable connoting that everything else is not, having style makes you more powerful and elevated (even if you can't afford it, at least you look good), etc.
That was my attempt at portraying di Casanova's article in a neutral manner. Thoughts?
di Casanova, E. (2003). Women's magazines in Ecuador: Re-reading "la Chica Cosmo." Studies in Latin American popular culture, 22, 89-102.
In Ecuador, fashion is for the upper class, the privileged, di Casanova tells us. La Chica Cosmo is the Western magazine Cosmopolitan's attempt to create global consumers. di Casanova has two major criticisms of this magazine and the Western fashion industry. First, she asserts that there is a deliberate attempt to exploit the middle class female, appealing to her to distinguish herself from her lower class peers and develop style and consumption habits like her upper class peers. Of course, middle class status is more precarious than upper class status.
di Casanova's criticism is most directed at the glorification of European culture and looks. Selected Latin American models have decidedly "white" features and are displayed with European trappings. She points out that this underscores racist messages that dark skin and Indian features are not desirable. The whole idea of Western fashion imposing its values on Latin American women uncovers the legacy of colonialism. di Casanova fingers Western fashion as an agent of Northern Imperialism.
di Casanova's message is useful in discussing that fashion does not exist solely for women's enjoyment. Marketing and production have other motives. Some of the things di Casanova argues are the same criticisms of Western fashion magazines for Western women: certain qualities are deemed beautiful and desirable connoting that everything else is not, having style makes you more powerful and elevated (even if you can't afford it, at least you look good), etc.
That was my attempt at portraying di Casanova's article in a neutral manner. Thoughts?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Basking in Forgiveness
I'm a United Methodist now. To review: I was baptized a Roman Catholic in my infancy, later baptized in a Baptist church, spent a good chunk of time in Evangelical churches, and am now a member of a United Methodist Church. I like being United Methodist for several reasons. For a bit of background, our beloved pastor is being moved to another congregation by the Bishop & Co. (The removal of our pastor is my most un-favorite thing about being a United Methodist). BUT, his replacement was announced this Sunday and SHE is an African American woman. I like the way my United Methodist identity coexists so nicely with my feminist one.
Secondly, United Methodists follow the church calendar. I am a seasonal person. It's how I can be a Northerner. Snow has to come in the winter, followed by flowery and rainy spring, followed by summers with fresh produce and swimming in lakes, followed by colorful foliage and crisp air in fall. I like that rhythm in the church calendar as well. Times for celebration and times for reflection. We are in Lent right now. I like being given a time of year to change pace, slow down, and pay attention. It is a time to think about what we have been given, and what that cost.
Inevitably, we find our weakness in this season. Human beings can't do soul-searching and not find weakness. Even if we have not technically cheated on our Lent sacrifices, we realize our capacity for weakness. Even if we do not participate in Lent and make sacrifices, it takes one reminder of some off-handed remark we made that wreaked havoc, or one harsh word to our children, or one covert purchase receipt to throw in our faces that the thing we are most capable of is messing up.
The ultimate purpose of the Sacrifice we celebrate is forgiveness. Forgiveness. Let that word wash over you and loosen the goo sticking to the corners of your soul. We are good at beating ourselves up; we are not good at accepting forgiveness. We're sure we need to pay more penance, flog ourselves a bit more. We swallow guilt continually, and make vows to try harder. New Year's resolutions are kissin' cousins to Lent give-ups.
We are Americans, gosh darn it. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and propel forward on our ingenuity and gumption. We do not want to do things like accept help or acknowledge stuff we can't do. But, we can't be perfect. We have bad days. We might do really well on one thing we're working on only to discover we have completely neglected something (or someone) else.
In both the women's movement and in Christian living we exhaust ourselves trying to get everything right. Sometimes, we just need to stop, slow down, and soak up forgiveness like a Northerner on Spring Break soaks up sun on a beach in Florida. I could use a little of both right now - how about you?
Secondly, United Methodists follow the church calendar. I am a seasonal person. It's how I can be a Northerner. Snow has to come in the winter, followed by flowery and rainy spring, followed by summers with fresh produce and swimming in lakes, followed by colorful foliage and crisp air in fall. I like that rhythm in the church calendar as well. Times for celebration and times for reflection. We are in Lent right now. I like being given a time of year to change pace, slow down, and pay attention. It is a time to think about what we have been given, and what that cost.
Inevitably, we find our weakness in this season. Human beings can't do soul-searching and not find weakness. Even if we have not technically cheated on our Lent sacrifices, we realize our capacity for weakness. Even if we do not participate in Lent and make sacrifices, it takes one reminder of some off-handed remark we made that wreaked havoc, or one harsh word to our children, or one covert purchase receipt to throw in our faces that the thing we are most capable of is messing up.
The ultimate purpose of the Sacrifice we celebrate is forgiveness. Forgiveness. Let that word wash over you and loosen the goo sticking to the corners of your soul. We are good at beating ourselves up; we are not good at accepting forgiveness. We're sure we need to pay more penance, flog ourselves a bit more. We swallow guilt continually, and make vows to try harder. New Year's resolutions are kissin' cousins to Lent give-ups.
We are Americans, gosh darn it. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and propel forward on our ingenuity and gumption. We do not want to do things like accept help or acknowledge stuff we can't do. But, we can't be perfect. We have bad days. We might do really well on one thing we're working on only to discover we have completely neglected something (or someone) else.
In both the women's movement and in Christian living we exhaust ourselves trying to get everything right. Sometimes, we just need to stop, slow down, and soak up forgiveness like a Northerner on Spring Break soaks up sun on a beach in Florida. I could use a little of both right now - how about you?
Monday, March 14, 2011
Ready, Set, Fashion!
Here we go, embarking on a journey of exploring fashion and feminism. You can thank my instructor for approving my paper topic. My paper is going to explore whether or not a "real" feminist can be into fashion.
This is how I thought we would proceed. For the next couple of weeks, I am going to present you with about five or six journal articles, giving you the summary of what they say, and how I think they relate to the topic. (Comments encouraged, welcomed, etc.) I also hope to give you a summary and some information about actual facts about the workings of the fashion industry and garment making. Ultimately, I will post the paper - or a way to get to the paper so as not to bore you if this just sounds like one big snoozefest to you. My professor challenged us to submit the paper to a conference for extra credit (this is our capstone course). I just might go for it. We'll see. Your comments might get a citation! (Just so you know, the chances of this paper getting accepted to any respectable conference are slim to none). Sound kind of fun to the fashionistas and/or nerdy among us? :) Now for today's article:
This is how I thought we would proceed. For the next couple of weeks, I am going to present you with about five or six journal articles, giving you the summary of what they say, and how I think they relate to the topic. (Comments encouraged, welcomed, etc.) I also hope to give you a summary and some information about actual facts about the workings of the fashion industry and garment making. Ultimately, I will post the paper - or a way to get to the paper so as not to bore you if this just sounds like one big snoozefest to you. My professor challenged us to submit the paper to a conference for extra credit (this is our capstone course). I just might go for it. We'll see. Your comments might get a citation! (Just so you know, the chances of this paper getting accepted to any respectable conference are slim to none). Sound kind of fun to the fashionistas and/or nerdy among us? :) Now for today's article:
Scanlon, J. (2009). Sexy from the start: Anticipatory elements of second wave feminism. Women’s Studies, 38, 127-150.
Scanlon presents the tension between second and third wave feminists over views of fashion. She begins by noting that the very concept of “waves" allows the image of simultaneously identifying with and breaking from the past. Third wave feminists are a diverse, not easily defined group, but generally see themselves as making right of some of the second wave’s wrongs. In the case of this article, the wrong would be believing that fashionable, "sexy," dress undermines women's power and ability to be taken seriously in the work place.
Scanlon points to Helen Gurley Brown, long time editor of Cosmopolitan magazine, as the forerunner of Third Wave’s embrace of fashion. Scanlon’s thesis is that the line between second and third wave fashion is blurrier than the either/or scenario it has been considered; Gurley Brown is an agent of blending the two. Gurley Brown, like second wave feminists, pursued power for women in the workplace. She disagreed, however, that it would come in dressing like a man, and instead endorsed mini-skirts, make-up, and high heels. She asserted that dressing femininely is powerful, and that women do not dress for men; they dress to in ways that make them feel confident and good about themselves. Gurley Brown was just as in favor of women’s independence and assertion of self as any second wave feminist, but thought that women defined that by the way they chose to dress. Third wave feminists have continued her beliefs by maintaining that a woman can project any image they please, and are not at the mercy of anyone, be it men or second wave feminist’s, ideas of who they should be.
Scanlon’s work is useful to my topic because she addresses not only the dilemma of whether or not fashionable dressing is fitting for feminists, but also because she attempts to show a hint of a possibility for middle ground between staunch second wave and freer third wave ideologies. She does not quite give second wave feminists a fair portrayal of their reasons for shunning fashion, and focuses intensely on the merits of third wave ideas, almost endorsing third wave fashion views as the solution, or, as the evolved and better product of second waves beliefs.
I am trying to stay fairly neutral when I do these article presentations in hopes of generating some great discussion...
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Precariousness
Maybe Saturdays are becoming "extra plea for help" day.
Times are tight financially, I know. I wish I had large amounts of money to give to every cause that grabs my heart. A recent disaster in Japan and the Pacific is on the forefront of our minds and hearts. When I received this e-mail this morning from Chris Alexander, who has posted here before, I just felt I should forward this on as this is one of our "Reaching Out a Hand" organizations. From Chris:
I only have an hour before I have to leave so I will type as much as I can of this story and hope that it is enough.
I have been on three trips to Battambang since coming to Cambodia 21 days ago. On the first trip I had the opportunity to spend time with Lilian, the chef from the Conrad Hotel who was our first culinary trainer from the States, before she returned home. She had been here for six weeks working with eight of our culinary students. On my second trip I was only there for a few hours but all the girls were still there however on my third trip I discovered that two of the girls had left the program. One left because someone was needed to care for an ailing grandmother and she was directed by her family to leave our program and move to the country. Family ties are very strong in Cambodia and assuming that the story is true she really didn't have a choice. The story with the second girl however was a little different. In an IM message with Doug Harty I wrote the following ... "It's a complicated story and one that speaks to my lack of fully understanding how close to the edge all of our girls really are." The truth is that even now all of the girls in our program are one crisis away from making a really bad decision or having a really bad decision made for them.
Here is what I know. The culinary training program is a non-residential program. Our students come from orphan homes in the Battambang area. They are girls in their late teens or in some cases their early twenties who are either true orphans (usually by AIDS) or who have come from very difficult circumstances where being raised in an orphan care facility is the only way to protect them from being sold or abused. The particular girl in this story comes from the latter. She is one of the oldest girls in our program. She was once married but is now divorced. The divorce happened because of abuse. She has a six year old son who is the result of her being repeatedly raped by her father-in-law. She is not highly educated but is highly motivated and wants to do well in the program.
As I mentioned the culinary training program is a non-residential program. Our assumption has been that housing and some food can be provided by the orphan homes that we work with and in most cases this is true. Unfortunately what I did not realize was that she was no longer staying at the orphan home. I don't know why it happened (perhaps it was her age or a space issue) or when it happened but apparently some time ago this student moved into the home of her older sister. But other than providing a place to sleep her sister has not been kind to her and continually demanded money - money that she simply didn't have. At some point an older - distant relative - became involved and took her to Phnom Penh where he was paid a commission ($150) for her to sign a contract that would take her to Malaysia where she would work as a domestic servant. In many cases this is tantamount to slavery because all identity documents are kept by the employer. It is not difficult to imagine that living in a foreign country without access to money or a passport can easily lead to a situation where abuse occurs.
I didn't find out about any of this until a couple of days ago and so this morning - my last day in Phnom Penh - was spent in dealing with the rather unhappy owner of the company that held the contract on our student. Basically this is how it all played out ...
Yesterday Kimlon - the Administrator of the Culinary Training Center - arrived by bus from Battambang. She met me at the hotel this morning at 7:30 am. By 8:00 we had found the office of the "Maid Service" company in a small and rather seedy part of town. By 8:30 we had reconnected with our student. It took about everything I had to keep it together because as soon as she saw me she ran over and hugged me and started crying. Neither the hug nor the tears are very normal for here. It was very obvious that she did not want to be in the position that she was in. She did not want to go to Malaysia. She did want to be in the program. By 9:00 the manager of the company had arrived. He was not very happy but I wasn't very happy either. Kimlon spoke for a few minutes but I could see that she wasn't getting very far so I jumped in. It took a while and don't have time to include all of the details but within a hour I paid the company $183.00 for some fees related to her medical exam and passport and then scooted out the door with our student! Praise the Lord!
As I reflect on this event several things have become clear. First - all of our students - are still living on the edge. They are as I wrote earlier just one crisis away from either their own bad decision or a bad decision made by a relative. Secondly, it has become clear that in order for CGI to truly care properly for the girls even in a non-residential program we have to build some financial margin. We are spending far too much time trying to cut corners in order to save money that we are not providing the infrastructure that will allow us to monitor the bigger picture that includes their relationship to the orphan home where they stay or even the impact and influence of their extended families. I don't want to lose any of these girls and I don't want them to find themselves in situation where we can't help but in order for that to happen we have to have sufficient funds to hire additional staff and provide a more comprehensive level of care.
We need our girls to have sponsors.
We need additional staff and even for our staff to have sponsors.
We need your help.
Doug said that he was going to get this out to his network. I am also sending it out to the CGI e-newsletter list. If you get this please consider giving financially to help CGI help these girls. Then pass this email along to as many others as you can. Put it on Facebook, forward it to your email lists, do whatever you can do to get the word out.
Donations are tax-deductible as Center for Global Impact is a 501(c)(3) charitable organization.
Checks can be made out to CGI and sent to 7358 Kita Drive, Indianapolis, IN 46259
Online donations can be made at www.centerforglobalimpact.org - click on the DONATE NOW link.
Thanks for reading and if you can help thanks for that too.
Until ALL have heard,
Chris Alexander, President
Center for Global Impact
Times are tight financially, I know. I wish I had large amounts of money to give to every cause that grabs my heart. A recent disaster in Japan and the Pacific is on the forefront of our minds and hearts. When I received this e-mail this morning from Chris Alexander, who has posted here before, I just felt I should forward this on as this is one of our "Reaching Out a Hand" organizations. From Chris:
I only have an hour before I have to leave so I will type as much as I can of this story and hope that it is enough.
I have been on three trips to Battambang since coming to Cambodia 21 days ago. On the first trip I had the opportunity to spend time with Lilian, the chef from the Conrad Hotel who was our first culinary trainer from the States, before she returned home. She had been here for six weeks working with eight of our culinary students. On my second trip I was only there for a few hours but all the girls were still there however on my third trip I discovered that two of the girls had left the program. One left because someone was needed to care for an ailing grandmother and she was directed by her family to leave our program and move to the country. Family ties are very strong in Cambodia and assuming that the story is true she really didn't have a choice. The story with the second girl however was a little different. In an IM message with Doug Harty I wrote the following ... "It's a complicated story and one that speaks to my lack of fully understanding how close to the edge all of our girls really are." The truth is that even now all of the girls in our program are one crisis away from making a really bad decision or having a really bad decision made for them.
Here is what I know. The culinary training program is a non-residential program. Our students come from orphan homes in the Battambang area. They are girls in their late teens or in some cases their early twenties who are either true orphans (usually by AIDS) or who have come from very difficult circumstances where being raised in an orphan care facility is the only way to protect them from being sold or abused. The particular girl in this story comes from the latter. She is one of the oldest girls in our program. She was once married but is now divorced. The divorce happened because of abuse. She has a six year old son who is the result of her being repeatedly raped by her father-in-law. She is not highly educated but is highly motivated and wants to do well in the program.
As I mentioned the culinary training program is a non-residential program. Our assumption has been that housing and some food can be provided by the orphan homes that we work with and in most cases this is true. Unfortunately what I did not realize was that she was no longer staying at the orphan home. I don't know why it happened (perhaps it was her age or a space issue) or when it happened but apparently some time ago this student moved into the home of her older sister. But other than providing a place to sleep her sister has not been kind to her and continually demanded money - money that she simply didn't have. At some point an older - distant relative - became involved and took her to Phnom Penh where he was paid a commission ($150) for her to sign a contract that would take her to Malaysia where she would work as a domestic servant. In many cases this is tantamount to slavery because all identity documents are kept by the employer. It is not difficult to imagine that living in a foreign country without access to money or a passport can easily lead to a situation where abuse occurs.
I didn't find out about any of this until a couple of days ago and so this morning - my last day in Phnom Penh - was spent in dealing with the rather unhappy owner of the company that held the contract on our student. Basically this is how it all played out ...
Yesterday Kimlon - the Administrator of the Culinary Training Center - arrived by bus from Battambang. She met me at the hotel this morning at 7:30 am. By 8:00 we had found the office of the "Maid Service" company in a small and rather seedy part of town. By 8:30 we had reconnected with our student. It took about everything I had to keep it together because as soon as she saw me she ran over and hugged me and started crying. Neither the hug nor the tears are very normal for here. It was very obvious that she did not want to be in the position that she was in. She did not want to go to Malaysia. She did want to be in the program. By 9:00 the manager of the company had arrived. He was not very happy but I wasn't very happy either. Kimlon spoke for a few minutes but I could see that she wasn't getting very far so I jumped in. It took a while and don't have time to include all of the details but within a hour I paid the company $183.00 for some fees related to her medical exam and passport and then scooted out the door with our student! Praise the Lord!
As I reflect on this event several things have become clear. First - all of our students - are still living on the edge. They are as I wrote earlier just one crisis away from either their own bad decision or a bad decision made by a relative. Secondly, it has become clear that in order for CGI to truly care properly for the girls even in a non-residential program we have to build some financial margin. We are spending far too much time trying to cut corners in order to save money that we are not providing the infrastructure that will allow us to monitor the bigger picture that includes their relationship to the orphan home where they stay or even the impact and influence of their extended families. I don't want to lose any of these girls and I don't want them to find themselves in situation where we can't help but in order for that to happen we have to have sufficient funds to hire additional staff and provide a more comprehensive level of care.
We need our girls to have sponsors.
We need additional staff and even for our staff to have sponsors.
We need your help.
Doug said that he was going to get this out to his network. I am also sending it out to the CGI e-newsletter list. If you get this please consider giving financially to help CGI help these girls. Then pass this email along to as many others as you can. Put it on Facebook, forward it to your email lists, do whatever you can do to get the word out.
Donations are tax-deductible as Center for Global Impact is a 501(c)(3) charitable organization.
Checks can be made out to CGI and sent to 7358 Kita Drive, Indianapolis, IN 46259
Online donations can be made at www.centerforglobalimpact.org - click on the DONATE NOW link.
Thanks for reading and if you can help thanks for that too.
Until ALL have heard,
Chris Alexander, President
Center for Global Impact
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Work of Our Hands
In feminist writing, there is a lot of talk about women being creators. Post-structuralists sort of throw this and the idea of inherent gender qualities, away from themselves. Other feminists urge us to embrace our feminine urge to bring things to life. I have to write a paper about all that today, but you probably don't, so I'll abandon that for a lighter discussion.
All humans, I venture to say, have been proud of something they have made with their own hands. There is something thrilling about altering matter completely. Women, in our culture and many others, do have the reputation for being crafty. I don't mean to connote snake-like conniving, though we're perfectly capable of that too. I mean, we make nice stuff. Meals, baskets, clothing, blankets, gardens, photographs, sculpture, memoirs, novels, furniture, pottery, songs, etc. Some of us are more artistic than others. Nothing I've made can ever be as high quality as mediocre fruit of my sister Kelly's hands. Kelly says "I'm going to make an elaborate birthday cake for my son" and creates something that looks like she's gone to chef's school. She remodeled her kitchen with her own hands. Some of us might think "I have never made a thing I would let see the light of day!"
There must be something. It's not about how perfect the rest of us would deem it; what does it mean to you? Or is there a certain category of things you like to make? Why? What is special about your creations? What about you is reflected? If it was a gift, what were you trying to convey? Do you feel joy or peace or anticipation when working on it?
I play at artistry. My cakes usually don't look exactly like the picture in the cookbook, and I think painting my kitchen and cabinets was as close to remodeling as I should come. But I still like to make things. I like having beautiful things around me. I like expending creative energy.
I have my friends duped into thinking I'm good at knitting. I'm not. I'm a one-trick pony. But it's a nice trick. I like giving hand-knit baby gifts, if I can find the time. A baby's arrival in the world is worth the finest of celebrations, and I want my loved ones to know how precious I think their babies are. There have been exceptions - if I know your mom will present you with 50 baby items she crocheted, I'll probably buy you something else. Or if you've explicitly said "I hate homemade baby gifts," you will not receive one from me. Otherwise, I love imagining, picking out yarn and buttons, a style that fits what Mama might like and who this baby might be. I pray and try to knit love and good thoughts for the new little person into it. And they usually are super cute when they turn out. Once I entered a bunch of sweaters in a fundraising event and found I didn't like impersonally (and furiously) knitting a bunch of sweaters. Maybe I don't do as good a job unless I can personalize.
Maybe you have a project you are working on this weekend. It seems like it might be one of those March weekends better spent indoors, here. Whatever you end up doing, I hope your creative spirit will get a little exercise.
All humans, I venture to say, have been proud of something they have made with their own hands. There is something thrilling about altering matter completely. Women, in our culture and many others, do have the reputation for being crafty. I don't mean to connote snake-like conniving, though we're perfectly capable of that too. I mean, we make nice stuff. Meals, baskets, clothing, blankets, gardens, photographs, sculpture, memoirs, novels, furniture, pottery, songs, etc. Some of us are more artistic than others. Nothing I've made can ever be as high quality as mediocre fruit of my sister Kelly's hands. Kelly says "I'm going to make an elaborate birthday cake for my son" and creates something that looks like she's gone to chef's school. She remodeled her kitchen with her own hands. Some of us might think "I have never made a thing I would let see the light of day!"
There must be something. It's not about how perfect the rest of us would deem it; what does it mean to you? Or is there a certain category of things you like to make? Why? What is special about your creations? What about you is reflected? If it was a gift, what were you trying to convey? Do you feel joy or peace or anticipation when working on it?
I play at artistry. My cakes usually don't look exactly like the picture in the cookbook, and I think painting my kitchen and cabinets was as close to remodeling as I should come. But I still like to make things. I like having beautiful things around me. I like expending creative energy.
I have my friends duped into thinking I'm good at knitting. I'm not. I'm a one-trick pony. But it's a nice trick. I like giving hand-knit baby gifts, if I can find the time. A baby's arrival in the world is worth the finest of celebrations, and I want my loved ones to know how precious I think their babies are. There have been exceptions - if I know your mom will present you with 50 baby items she crocheted, I'll probably buy you something else. Or if you've explicitly said "I hate homemade baby gifts," you will not receive one from me. Otherwise, I love imagining, picking out yarn and buttons, a style that fits what Mama might like and who this baby might be. I pray and try to knit love and good thoughts for the new little person into it. And they usually are super cute when they turn out. Once I entered a bunch of sweaters in a fundraising event and found I didn't like impersonally (and furiously) knitting a bunch of sweaters. Maybe I don't do as good a job unless I can personalize.
Maybe you have a project you are working on this weekend. It seems like it might be one of those March weekends better spent indoors, here. Whatever you end up doing, I hope your creative spirit will get a little exercise.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Rhubarb Memories
An index card fell out of one of my cookbooks the other day, and it startled me to recognize my Grandma Weldt's handwriting. The card was strangely white and fresh, unlike the other index cards that comprise the recipe collection I inherited from her. I don't have any idea how this card became separated from the pack; in fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen this recipe card in my life.
"Rhubarb Iced Tea." I also do not remember drinking rhubarb iced-tea with my grandmother. My grandfather was an avid gardener, and it does not surprise me that Grandma would've been trying to find uses for all that rhubarb. I do remember her strawberry rhubarb pie, or even just "strawberry rhubarb" dumped along side meat, potatoes and veggies on her brown and yellow dinner plates as an extra little yummy at supper. But this simple recipe: rhubarb, water, and sugar is not consistent with my memories of her. Especially the "serve with a mint sprig" part.
My grandmother was a quiet and gentle woman with a brood of seven children and twenty-one grandchildren. She met and married my grandpa in six weeks time before he went off to war, when she was young and pretty and looked remarkably similar to my sister Kristy.Grandpa was totally in love with Grandma until the day he died. My grandpa was a loud, generous, busy, high-profile kind of guy. My grandma was the gravity center of calm. When I recall her memory, she is conjured seated at her kitchen table, with her cup of coffee, her bird feeders outside the window as busy as Dunkin Donuts in the morning rush hour. Perhaps the men in the family are crowding around, grabbing coffee and bakery, or grandkids are running through wearing snorkeling masks and swinging badminton rackets, or she and I are sitting alone, and her fingernails click against the deck of cards she is effortlessly shuffling. Her laugh is the sound of a bubbling brook, unable to be replicated by any other in my ears.
My grandma died less than a month after my wedding, which she was too sick to attend. One of my aunts or my father thoughtfully gave me her recipes when they were going through her things, and it is by far the best of her physical possessions I could have been given. I actually don't remember many dinners she cooked: Grandpa's elaborate Sunday dinners have won top culinary billing in the family. Poor grandma probably cleaned up the aftermath of those dinners, though. Once in awhile I shuffle through her cards and wonder why she included some of the things she did, or why there were duplicates of certain recipes, and if she really tried that tomato gelatin thing. It gives me a glimpse of her that I didn't know. There was a lot about her I may never know. Like whether or not she served Rhubarb Tea in tall glasses with mint sprigs to her friends.
I like to think that she just recently dashed off that recipe and tucked it where she knew I'd find it, knowing how into tea I've been lately. My grandma lived in Northern Wisconsin and like me, knows the sigh that comes to the heart when everyone else is reporting crocuses while we are looking out on a foot of fresh snow. I'd also like to think she wants to cheer me up with thoughts that one of spring's first fruits isn't that far away: hang on, it's coming, dear. When the market opens, I'll be sure to buy some rhubarb, or maybe I'll brave the deer and plant some myself.
Feminist writers often remind us to remember where we came from, to think about our mothers and grandmothers and how they've contributed to who we are. We are connected to them. Their struggles and joys are part of our story too. What strength and encouragement are the memories of your female relatives offering you today?
"Rhubarb Iced Tea." I also do not remember drinking rhubarb iced-tea with my grandmother. My grandfather was an avid gardener, and it does not surprise me that Grandma would've been trying to find uses for all that rhubarb. I do remember her strawberry rhubarb pie, or even just "strawberry rhubarb" dumped along side meat, potatoes and veggies on her brown and yellow dinner plates as an extra little yummy at supper. But this simple recipe: rhubarb, water, and sugar is not consistent with my memories of her. Especially the "serve with a mint sprig" part.
My grandmother was a quiet and gentle woman with a brood of seven children and twenty-one grandchildren. She met and married my grandpa in six weeks time before he went off to war, when she was young and pretty and looked remarkably similar to my sister Kristy.Grandpa was totally in love with Grandma until the day he died. My grandpa was a loud, generous, busy, high-profile kind of guy. My grandma was the gravity center of calm. When I recall her memory, she is conjured seated at her kitchen table, with her cup of coffee, her bird feeders outside the window as busy as Dunkin Donuts in the morning rush hour. Perhaps the men in the family are crowding around, grabbing coffee and bakery, or grandkids are running through wearing snorkeling masks and swinging badminton rackets, or she and I are sitting alone, and her fingernails click against the deck of cards she is effortlessly shuffling. Her laugh is the sound of a bubbling brook, unable to be replicated by any other in my ears.
My grandma died less than a month after my wedding, which she was too sick to attend. One of my aunts or my father thoughtfully gave me her recipes when they were going through her things, and it is by far the best of her physical possessions I could have been given. I actually don't remember many dinners she cooked: Grandpa's elaborate Sunday dinners have won top culinary billing in the family. Poor grandma probably cleaned up the aftermath of those dinners, though. Once in awhile I shuffle through her cards and wonder why she included some of the things she did, or why there were duplicates of certain recipes, and if she really tried that tomato gelatin thing. It gives me a glimpse of her that I didn't know. There was a lot about her I may never know. Like whether or not she served Rhubarb Tea in tall glasses with mint sprigs to her friends.
I like to think that she just recently dashed off that recipe and tucked it where she knew I'd find it, knowing how into tea I've been lately. My grandma lived in Northern Wisconsin and like me, knows the sigh that comes to the heart when everyone else is reporting crocuses while we are looking out on a foot of fresh snow. I'd also like to think she wants to cheer me up with thoughts that one of spring's first fruits isn't that far away: hang on, it's coming, dear. When the market opens, I'll be sure to buy some rhubarb, or maybe I'll brave the deer and plant some myself.
Feminist writers often remind us to remember where we came from, to think about our mothers and grandmothers and how they've contributed to who we are. We are connected to them. Their struggles and joys are part of our story too. What strength and encouragement are the memories of your female relatives offering you today?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Broccoli is to Chocolate As Hot Wheels Weddings Are To____.
Today is Ash Wednesday. When I was a kid, a priest would stamp a circle of ashes on my forehead, and my sister Kelly and I would compete to see who could leave the better circle of ashes on the longest. Unless my mother intervened and ordered a good face washing. I remember trying to come up with something that sounded really sacrificial to tell Sister Rose I was giving up. (A boy in my catechism class was scolded for giving up broccoli). I settled on gum.
For years I did not practice Lent, and in the past few years have come back to it. As I did when I was a kid, I kind of negotiate a Lent sacrifice deal with myself. I have surrendered Coca-Cola when I was a 2-can per day drinker. I have given up alcoholic beverages. This year, it's ice cream (I have a bowl of ice cream every night before bed). They are real sacrifices. But they are not the big guns. I have never cashed it all in.
I feel as if this attitude extends to other areas of my faith as well. I give up a little time here and there, but how often am I completely generous about offering up my schedule? Sometimes I donate a good chunk of change, but I have never given so much that my faith is really tested. I make little negotiations every day about how much I will give, and how much I will keep.
In motherhood, I do the semi-sacrifice thing too. I'll get up with the baby, but not THREE times in one night. I'll take one day off for a sick kid, but not two. I'll play a board game or read a book, but NO I am NOT going to play "cars," which requires staging a wedding between Jeff Gordon's rainbow matchbox car and a powder blue Jaguar Hot Wheels convertible with onlooking Playmobil vet staff and assorted Disney Princesses. I am not advocating heedless indulgence of our darlings. I'm suggesting that I really can give up coffee if I am willing to put up with a few headaches.
Feminism has a nauseating amount to say about Motherhood and sacrifice and I am not addressing it all right now. In reality, most mothers know there is sacrifice involved in having children. (The volume of sacrifice, however, is continually shocking). We love our children. When you love someone, sacrifice is part of the package. Motherhood as a theory, as a construct of society, is one thing. Loving your children, or anyone else, is another.
The biggest tension between feminism and faith in Christ is this point: rights vs. sacrifice. As Feminists, we are asked to fight for rights, and not just others', but as women, ours. As Christians, we are called to love one another. Lent is about reflecting on Jesus sacrifice for us. Lent is a rehearsal for sacrificing bigger stuff in real life. Like stopping to talk to my lonely old neighbor when I'm running late. I doubt God cares if I ever go a day in my life without coffee.
Honestly, I rarely find myself growing closer to God when I fight for my own rights. Others', yes. Totally. Mine, no. I find myself angry at my husband or kids or the world in general. I find myself keeping score. During Lent, I want to suspend that urge, and just be present for my family and in the moments presented to me to love others. I want to hold my hands open, instead of clenched in fists. It's hard to hide clandestine bowls of ice cream in outstretched hands.
For years I did not practice Lent, and in the past few years have come back to it. As I did when I was a kid, I kind of negotiate a Lent sacrifice deal with myself. I have surrendered Coca-Cola when I was a 2-can per day drinker. I have given up alcoholic beverages. This year, it's ice cream (I have a bowl of ice cream every night before bed). They are real sacrifices. But they are not the big guns. I have never cashed it all in.
I feel as if this attitude extends to other areas of my faith as well. I give up a little time here and there, but how often am I completely generous about offering up my schedule? Sometimes I donate a good chunk of change, but I have never given so much that my faith is really tested. I make little negotiations every day about how much I will give, and how much I will keep.
In motherhood, I do the semi-sacrifice thing too. I'll get up with the baby, but not THREE times in one night. I'll take one day off for a sick kid, but not two. I'll play a board game or read a book, but NO I am NOT going to play "cars," which requires staging a wedding between Jeff Gordon's rainbow matchbox car and a powder blue Jaguar Hot Wheels convertible with onlooking Playmobil vet staff and assorted Disney Princesses. I am not advocating heedless indulgence of our darlings. I'm suggesting that I really can give up coffee if I am willing to put up with a few headaches.
Feminism has a nauseating amount to say about Motherhood and sacrifice and I am not addressing it all right now. In reality, most mothers know there is sacrifice involved in having children. (The volume of sacrifice, however, is continually shocking). We love our children. When you love someone, sacrifice is part of the package. Motherhood as a theory, as a construct of society, is one thing. Loving your children, or anyone else, is another.
The biggest tension between feminism and faith in Christ is this point: rights vs. sacrifice. As Feminists, we are asked to fight for rights, and not just others', but as women, ours. As Christians, we are called to love one another. Lent is about reflecting on Jesus sacrifice for us. Lent is a rehearsal for sacrificing bigger stuff in real life. Like stopping to talk to my lonely old neighbor when I'm running late. I doubt God cares if I ever go a day in my life without coffee.
Honestly, I rarely find myself growing closer to God when I fight for my own rights. Others', yes. Totally. Mine, no. I find myself angry at my husband or kids or the world in general. I find myself keeping score. During Lent, I want to suspend that urge, and just be present for my family and in the moments presented to me to love others. I want to hold my hands open, instead of clenched in fists. It's hard to hide clandestine bowls of ice cream in outstretched hands.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
A Little History
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| Festival of Trees at the Peoples Church of East Lansing |
Is it still Tuesday? Did I miss it?
I am tired. I've been busy counting donations (woo hoo) until my eyes cross (booo).
It's a good problem to have for an Executive Assistant at a small non-profit with ginormous goals.
Have you like the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project on facebook yet?
Part of the reason for the craze in our office is the Grandmother Basket Project. Considering this is the 100th Anniversary of International Women's Day, I thought I would start with a little history lesson on the Grandmothers of Nyaka.
Prior to the sweeping death toll of HIV/AIDS in Uganda, there had been a stretch of over 20 years where no one died. I am not making this up. My boss's tale to tell but it's true. Families were built, children loved and educated a plot of land at a time. Children are considered the only retirement income necessary in rural Uganda. Parents literally sell their assets piece by piece in an effort to ensure an educated, free of poverty future for them. The children grow up and support their parents.
HIV/AIDS shattered that historical tradition.
After years of sacrifice, the children of our grandmothers died. Some were left owning only the small plot of land that their shabby home stood on. They had no money, no livestock, no agriculture to sell and no way to come up with any of these things on their own. They lived hand to mouth and sometimes the distance could not be crossed. On top of these struggles, on average they now became the guardians of 7 very young, very hungry grandchildren.
This was the line at Jackson Kaguri's door. A line of women and children requesting food for tuition, food and medicine from a young newly married, college graduate. This was the beginning of Nyaka AIDS Orphans School but you can read more about that in The Price of Stones.
In order to support the children in their home lives, the NAOP needed to support the women who were sacrificing so much to care for them. This is when the trade began; a student for the school nurse to tend to sick grandmothers. This is when the grandmothers started learning about how to keep small gardens from the Farm Manager at Desire Farm so that they could provide nutritious produce for those growing minds and bodies.
Eventually, the baskets that they traditionally made and sold at market caught the eye of the organization as a way to support the Micro-Finance Program.
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| Chase Bank on Grand River :) |
So now, every trip made to Uganda, brings a return of hundreds of baskets and bead necklaces. I was lucky enough to get Lunch With A Purpose to swing by and help me inventory them this time. I have just hired an intern and I have a high school student who volunteers after school helping me ship the baskets all over the country for our in home Grandmother Basket Parties. It is a good thing too!
These baskets are a life line for the Grandmothers. Our organization buys them upfront so that the grandmothers can go on creating while we sell their inventory. They have taken that money and started to sell pottery, more baskets and produce from their gardens. These women didn't need charity. They just need a way to lift themselves up one hand at a time.
We have also listed a few of their baskets in the Etsy Nyaka Grandmother Shop.
Fortitude. That is the word I think of every time I look at their photos. I can't wait to visit them and show them the photos of people all over the country who have lovingly purchased their baskets, shared their stories and supported them with prayers.
Love...the world over.
Included or Oppressed
Well, I've been wondering, and it seems only fair that since I raised the question....
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=134369238
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=134369238
Monday, March 7, 2011
Artificial Solution
You will not believe, when you're finished reading this, that I wrote this in my right mind. This is about how the extrapolations of our thinking and problem solving can border on the bizarre. This is a foray waaaaay outside the box.....
"A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century" by Donna Haraway. You are neck-deep in third-wave feminism now, girlfriend. Lotsa scary words in that title. Most notably would (I'm guessing) be : cyborg.
Haraway is being ironic and playful, here, I must admit. She's kind of serious, but she knows she's totally pushing envelopes, buttons, etc. Her assertion is that we have accepted the weird blend of science in our world in ways that we already live with cyborgishness (and I'm pretty sure that's not a word). Modern medicine blends us with pig valves and pacemakers. We have genetically modified seeds and animals. You do know that most of the chickens you eat could never walk around if their feet ever hit the ground because they have been modified to be so breast-heavy, right? And they don't know how to mate either. That's a discussion for another blog, probably. We can't go back, Haraway says. We've hopped in bed with science, for better or worse. She even suggests our liberation lies in our reliance upon science.
Haraway posits that cyborgs are capable of total equality in ways that we are not. A cyborg has a blind eye to race, gender, class, and sexuality. There is no need for messy reproductive processes. No one to prop up patriarchal hierarchy. No unsightly fall out from silly emotions.
Science fiction? Way out? Not so fast. TIME, February 21, 2011,Volume 177, Lev Grossman's article" 2045, The Year Man Become Immortal" (yes, he said "man" only - booo Lev!) It's about singularity: that's essentially when computers are officially smarter than us. Current computing power is getting so rapid that our computers are going to cross into superhuman intelligence and then we no longer are in charge of our fates. Theoretically, we will someday be able to sync our brain with a computer. There is a promise of immortality here as well. You might be able to dump the contents of your brain into a computer and live forever.
Tower of Babel! I hear some Christians shouting. It is undoubtedly creepy to think about. (That AI movie - ew. Or maybe your husband didn't talk you into watching that one, lucky you. I should make him watch Steel Magnolias in a 24 hour never-ending loop as payback). We've cloned. We've ventured into deep space. We've wiped out some nasty diseases. We've created some powerful nuclear weapons. We can do a lot of stuff. Or, our technology can. Our technology can save us or destroy us. Or render us obsolete.
Is humanity worth saving if it is perfectly incapable of perfection?
If Jesus dying on the cross is an answer to that question, the translation is: yes. Humans will always live in the moral tension of the moment, but we have the capability of faith, hope and love. As long as we are human, that is.
"A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century" by Donna Haraway. You are neck-deep in third-wave feminism now, girlfriend. Lotsa scary words in that title. Most notably would (I'm guessing) be : cyborg.
Haraway is being ironic and playful, here, I must admit. She's kind of serious, but she knows she's totally pushing envelopes, buttons, etc. Her assertion is that we have accepted the weird blend of science in our world in ways that we already live with cyborgishness (and I'm pretty sure that's not a word). Modern medicine blends us with pig valves and pacemakers. We have genetically modified seeds and animals. You do know that most of the chickens you eat could never walk around if their feet ever hit the ground because they have been modified to be so breast-heavy, right? And they don't know how to mate either. That's a discussion for another blog, probably. We can't go back, Haraway says. We've hopped in bed with science, for better or worse. She even suggests our liberation lies in our reliance upon science.
Haraway posits that cyborgs are capable of total equality in ways that we are not. A cyborg has a blind eye to race, gender, class, and sexuality. There is no need for messy reproductive processes. No one to prop up patriarchal hierarchy. No unsightly fall out from silly emotions.
Science fiction? Way out? Not so fast. TIME, February 21, 2011,Volume 177, Lev Grossman's article" 2045, The Year Man Become Immortal" (yes, he said "man" only - booo Lev!) It's about singularity: that's essentially when computers are officially smarter than us. Current computing power is getting so rapid that our computers are going to cross into superhuman intelligence and then we no longer are in charge of our fates. Theoretically, we will someday be able to sync our brain with a computer. There is a promise of immortality here as well. You might be able to dump the contents of your brain into a computer and live forever.
Tower of Babel! I hear some Christians shouting. It is undoubtedly creepy to think about. (That AI movie - ew. Or maybe your husband didn't talk you into watching that one, lucky you. I should make him watch Steel Magnolias in a 24 hour never-ending loop as payback). We've cloned. We've ventured into deep space. We've wiped out some nasty diseases. We've created some powerful nuclear weapons. We can do a lot of stuff. Or, our technology can. Our technology can save us or destroy us. Or render us obsolete.
Is humanity worth saving if it is perfectly incapable of perfection?
If Jesus dying on the cross is an answer to that question, the translation is: yes. Humans will always live in the moral tension of the moment, but we have the capability of faith, hope and love. As long as we are human, that is.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Keeping Up the Fight
Technically, I know we've moved to a new spotlight topic, but I thought I would share this on the off day. Besides, just because we are discovering new organizations to help end oppression doesn't mean we completely drop the ones we've looked at, right?
We have not actually taken an official look at International Justice Mission (we will in the future), but they fight slavery and trafficking around the world. They work with local law enforcement to get the bad guys and take care of the victims.
There are many ways to get involved in fighting injustice, and if you are interested you can
sign a petition
to President Obama to follow through with a pledge of ending modern day slavery. Signatures are needed by March 10.
We have not actually taken an official look at International Justice Mission (we will in the future), but they fight slavery and trafficking around the world. They work with local law enforcement to get the bad guys and take care of the victims.
There are many ways to get involved in fighting injustice, and if you are interested you can
sign a petition
to President Obama to follow through with a pledge of ending modern day slavery. Signatures are needed by March 10.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Tea and Sympathy
Coffee is the heavy lifter in my life. On most days, it's the beverage that starts my day with cup 1, re-fills mid morning at cup 2 and maybe 3. Sometimes it keeps me awake for my afternoons of papers and required reading.
But tea doesn't get enough credit. I don't even notice its pervasiveness in my life. I have at least one cup of tea a day. Tea sticks around when you're sick, when coffee is just too much. Tea is the comfy warm beverage you can have in the evening. Plus, there's something kinda...girly... about tea, to me. (DON'T tell my husband that - I just started getting him to drink tea a few years ago. Don't tell men all over the world that either, especially the British. Oxford guys drinking tea just might have been the catalyst to get my husband to accept tea-drinking). British teatime - how great is that? The girls and I do after school teatime often, and I love it. You can kind of gussy-up teatime - use fancy cups, fun little treats, and my latest obsession - honey sticks! Or you can settle down with your favorite mug in front of the fire. I often browse teapots and admire them, wanting to splurge.
Tea has fun, inviting names too, and takes on so many forms. Healthy green tea, traditional Earl Grey, rich and exotic chai, fun fruity herbal infusions, refreshing mint, soothing chamomile and lemon. In the summer, you can widen the possibilities with iced tea. Which is so more fun to drink out of lovely, real glass glasses.
Tea also lends a certain intimacy and girlyness to gatherings. My friend Cathy sets out her teapot of tea for Monday nights and we all lean in to pour; immediately the conversation transforms from small talk to the soulful. Many women's heart-to-hearts throughout time and across the globe occurred over a cup of tea.
Do you have favorite tea trappings - cups, pots? Do you have a favorite tea moment to share? A favorite tea? It's not easy to choose one, is it? I like Stash's mint tea and their elusive lemon blossom, which I can only find at Goodrich's in East Lansing. The Republic of Tea's blackberry sage is a new love. My husband and daughter have to have Celestial Seasoning's honey vanilla chamomile in the house at all times. I'm a big fan of Bigelow's Constant Comment as well.
Well, Anna and I were inspired to have a tea for breakfast. Wish I could share a cup of tea with you too.
But tea doesn't get enough credit. I don't even notice its pervasiveness in my life. I have at least one cup of tea a day. Tea sticks around when you're sick, when coffee is just too much. Tea is the comfy warm beverage you can have in the evening. Plus, there's something kinda...girly... about tea, to me. (DON'T tell my husband that - I just started getting him to drink tea a few years ago. Don't tell men all over the world that either, especially the British. Oxford guys drinking tea just might have been the catalyst to get my husband to accept tea-drinking). British teatime - how great is that? The girls and I do after school teatime often, and I love it. You can kind of gussy-up teatime - use fancy cups, fun little treats, and my latest obsession - honey sticks! Or you can settle down with your favorite mug in front of the fire. I often browse teapots and admire them, wanting to splurge.
Tea has fun, inviting names too, and takes on so many forms. Healthy green tea, traditional Earl Grey, rich and exotic chai, fun fruity herbal infusions, refreshing mint, soothing chamomile and lemon. In the summer, you can widen the possibilities with iced tea. Which is so more fun to drink out of lovely, real glass glasses.
Tea also lends a certain intimacy and girlyness to gatherings. My friend Cathy sets out her teapot of tea for Monday nights and we all lean in to pour; immediately the conversation transforms from small talk to the soulful. Many women's heart-to-hearts throughout time and across the globe occurred over a cup of tea.
Do you have favorite tea trappings - cups, pots? Do you have a favorite tea moment to share? A favorite tea? It's not easy to choose one, is it? I like Stash's mint tea and their elusive lemon blossom, which I can only find at Goodrich's in East Lansing. The Republic of Tea's blackberry sage is a new love. My husband and daughter have to have Celestial Seasoning's honey vanilla chamomile in the house at all times. I'm a big fan of Bigelow's Constant Comment as well.
Well, Anna and I were inspired to have a tea for breakfast. Wish I could share a cup of tea with you too.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Getting on the Bus
This week, I have not been able to get two young girls out of my mind. They are 12 and 15 years old, in this country for less than a month. They don't speak English well. They used to live in the Darfur region of Sudan, until one night the Janjaweed burst into their village with guns. Their mother, the 12 year old, and two of their siblings were shot. Their 18 year old brother will never walk again. They had to flee their home that night and ended up living in a refugee camp. Their story is amazing.
I learned of them when their father showed up at the Center for New Americans Monday (for those of you who don't know me, I have a side gig as a refugee caseworker aid) worried sick about the whereabouts of his daughters. He learned that they had gotten on a city bus instead of a school bus, not knowing how to say the name of their school or their address or many words that most people in the city would understand. So his caseworker, another caseworker, and myself started trying to track down these girls. In the end, we discovered that the girls made it safely to school and unharmed, through a chain of events I don't quite grasp the details of as a lot of non-native English speakers were involved.
After the gentleman left, we all let down our masks of calm reassurance and while we let out a collective sigh of relief, expressed how nervous we had been for this father and his daughters. His caseworker, also a former refugee, told me stories about how her own daughter got lost on the way home from school twice when they first came to the States. One time, a fellow church member happened upon her and took her home, the second, she flagged down a police officer and he took her home.
These girls are inspiring. Their young lives have been lived between nightmares. Yet they are brave enough to try to get themselves on a strange bus in a strange (and cold and snowy!) city where they can't understand anyone, read anything, or communicate well. To go to school. To get a chance a chance at a better life. School is hard enough when you are those ages, let alone in the city, let alone as a refugee from Darfur. Plus, having been through what they have, it must be hard to even leave sight of their family members. Their courage is no small thing.
I learned of them when their father showed up at the Center for New Americans Monday (for those of you who don't know me, I have a side gig as a refugee caseworker aid) worried sick about the whereabouts of his daughters. He learned that they had gotten on a city bus instead of a school bus, not knowing how to say the name of their school or their address or many words that most people in the city would understand. So his caseworker, another caseworker, and myself started trying to track down these girls. In the end, we discovered that the girls made it safely to school and unharmed, through a chain of events I don't quite grasp the details of as a lot of non-native English speakers were involved.
After the gentleman left, we all let down our masks of calm reassurance and while we let out a collective sigh of relief, expressed how nervous we had been for this father and his daughters. His caseworker, also a former refugee, told me stories about how her own daughter got lost on the way home from school twice when they first came to the States. One time, a fellow church member happened upon her and took her home, the second, she flagged down a police officer and he took her home.
These girls are inspiring. Their young lives have been lived between nightmares. Yet they are brave enough to try to get themselves on a strange bus in a strange (and cold and snowy!) city where they can't understand anyone, read anything, or communicate well. To go to school. To get a chance a chance at a better life. School is hard enough when you are those ages, let alone in the city, let alone as a refugee from Darfur. Plus, having been through what they have, it must be hard to even leave sight of their family members. Their courage is no small thing.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Stop and Smell the People
One of my friends told of a recent experience where she noticed a person she normally would pass by. She did not know whether the encounter meant anything to the other person, but my friend felt changed by it. She urged us to just notice people this week. Look them in the eye. Smile.
It sounds so simple. But raise your hand if you have ever gone to the grocery store in a hurry just praying that you don't see anyone you notice, blinders on, all business.
Feminism and Christianity both address this subject in their own way. Feminism asks us to listen to every woman's experience, hearing each voice. It asks us to fight to end all oppression. Jesus told us to tend to "the least of these." He let children climb on his lap in the middle of important discussions, and he acknowledged the sacrifice of a "woman of questionable character."
He touched lepers.
Since the spotlight is on people affected by AIDS this month, I cannot help but make the comparison to leprosy. We have come light years away from the ignorant stances we took in the 1980's, but there is still a certain fear surrounding this disease. We have a certain temptation to hold it, and therefore people with it, at arm's length.
We do this with other things. It runs through my mind each time I cross the threshold of a dirty apartment door that I might carry bedbugs out with me. I cringe when a kindergartner wipes green snot from their nose and then touches my hand. There is a certain, involuntary "ew" factor that I get when face to face with the less-than-clean aspects of humanity.
It's a reaction I need to resist. In Luke 8 "Jesus touched him" are powerful words. The "him" was a leper, required to yell "Unclean!" as he walked down the street. And people would get out of the way. Leprosy is not an attractive disease in its end stages, so I imagine not many people really looked at him. And depending on how long he had the disease, it had probably been that long since he had experienced a human touch.
I'm busy. You're busy. We're modern (or postmodern, if you like) women and we have mastered the game of Beat the Clock. There is no time for unscheduled stop-and-chat. The dishes might not ever get done if we did that.
Another woman in the conversation I first mentioned responded, "You know, I don't even always stop for my kids. Sometimes they're up in bed and I ask myself if I really looked into their eyes when they talked to me. They kind of followed me around and talked at me and I got stuff done." There was a lot of head nodding to her confession, my head included.
Humans languish without each other. You probably have heard of the famous study (that would never get past IRB these days) where a group of infants had their physical needs met, but would never get cuddled. The kids did not develop correctly.
Oppression happens because human beings stop getting noticed for their worth and value. Sometimes one group of people writes a whole other group off. Learning how to tune people out de-humanizes the person being tuned out, but the person tuning out loses a bit of their humanity too. (I am not referring to locking yourself in the bathroom for 10 minutes of quiet sanity).
I extend my friend's challenge to you too.
It sounds so simple. But raise your hand if you have ever gone to the grocery store in a hurry just praying that you don't see anyone you notice, blinders on, all business.
Feminism and Christianity both address this subject in their own way. Feminism asks us to listen to every woman's experience, hearing each voice. It asks us to fight to end all oppression. Jesus told us to tend to "the least of these." He let children climb on his lap in the middle of important discussions, and he acknowledged the sacrifice of a "woman of questionable character."
He touched lepers.
Since the spotlight is on people affected by AIDS this month, I cannot help but make the comparison to leprosy. We have come light years away from the ignorant stances we took in the 1980's, but there is still a certain fear surrounding this disease. We have a certain temptation to hold it, and therefore people with it, at arm's length.
We do this with other things. It runs through my mind each time I cross the threshold of a dirty apartment door that I might carry bedbugs out with me. I cringe when a kindergartner wipes green snot from their nose and then touches my hand. There is a certain, involuntary "ew" factor that I get when face to face with the less-than-clean aspects of humanity.
It's a reaction I need to resist. In Luke 8 "Jesus touched him" are powerful words. The "him" was a leper, required to yell "Unclean!" as he walked down the street. And people would get out of the way. Leprosy is not an attractive disease in its end stages, so I imagine not many people really looked at him. And depending on how long he had the disease, it had probably been that long since he had experienced a human touch.
I'm busy. You're busy. We're modern (or postmodern, if you like) women and we have mastered the game of Beat the Clock. There is no time for unscheduled stop-and-chat. The dishes might not ever get done if we did that.
Another woman in the conversation I first mentioned responded, "You know, I don't even always stop for my kids. Sometimes they're up in bed and I ask myself if I really looked into their eyes when they talked to me. They kind of followed me around and talked at me and I got stuff done." There was a lot of head nodding to her confession, my head included.
Humans languish without each other. You probably have heard of the famous study (that would never get past IRB these days) where a group of infants had their physical needs met, but would never get cuddled. The kids did not develop correctly.
Oppression happens because human beings stop getting noticed for their worth and value. Sometimes one group of people writes a whole other group off. Learning how to tune people out de-humanizes the person being tuned out, but the person tuning out loses a bit of their humanity too. (I am not referring to locking yourself in the bathroom for 10 minutes of quiet sanity).
I extend my friend's challenge to you too.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Feel At Home
I was planning to go over the edge this year. Not mentally. That has already happened. I had on my list of things to do this year
- to repel the Boji Tower!
I know that Tuesday is "cause" day. Bear with me. It's coming.
I just found out that I will be going to Uganda in November. I will be visiting the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project. Which reminds me...I need to update my passport now.
Any whoooo...
Again. Done. They can eat and learn. Problem solved.
Eventually, children were finding it difficult to attend school. Grandmothers were getting sick and someone had to care for them. Water had to be fetched and chores done every day. Our grandmothers on average care for 7 children orphaned by the death of their parents. We will talk about them in a minute.
The Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project built gravity fed water systems, bringing clean water to the people. CLEAN water. The water that would decrease illness in students and grandmothers. The water that would be closer, so chores would not interfere in class time.
At Nyaka and Kutamba School, they trade the school nurse for students. When a grandmother gets sick, the student reports to the school and sends the nurse on a home visit. The student can get an education and the grandmother can receive care from a trained professional.
By the way, the child most likely to stay home will be a girl. (Remind me to post about the "Pad Our Sisters" Project this month.
Our grandmothers....*sigh*
I love these women. They deal with greif, stress, age, illness and severe, suffocating poverty but they persevere. I have so much respect for this group of women. Jackson has said that we will not rest until our grandmothers do. I swear the same oath now. I spend my days selling their baskets. I am a little sad because we just hired an intern to take over the Grandmother Basket Project that has grown to be too big (yaay!) for me to handle along with my other duties (boooo!).
I am glad that we are covering causes on Tuesdays because I could write a novel...oh, wait...my boss did!
It's called The Price of Stones. Try to pick it up and read all about the way the organization began.
I will continue to fill you in on the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project this month. Every Tuesday, I will focus on another bit. It's just too big and too amazing for one blog post.
I hope that is okay Tiff & Amanda? ;)
Okay, so the reason I am not going to repel? I have decided that instead of raising $500 for the city I love, I am going to try and raise $700 to build a grandmother a new home. I didn't mention that our organization builds homes, kitchens and latrines for the grandmothers did I? Well now you know why I need all month to tell you about Nyaka!
I can't show up in Uganda empty handed, now can I? It would be like showing up to a dinner party without a bottle of wine!
Today, I leave you with a video about the people we serve.
Love them. Pray for them. Give generously.
- to repel the Boji Tower!
Unfortunately, that is probably not going to happen. Not because I'm scared. I won't be scared until I actually lean over the edge. That is when I may have a panic attack. Now I am fine. It is a fundraiser for Team Lansing. I love my city and I really want to raise money for it...almost as much as I want to repel down that big beautiful building.
Probably not going to happen.
Any whoooo...
I have been working for the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project since September of 2010. It is an organization that provides free education to orphans who have lost one or both parents to HIV/AIDS. The idea is huge. There are over 2.4 million AIDS orphans in Uganda and we currently serve 547 children now. A very important drop in the global bucket.
This goal is amazing. The fact that the man who lived in the village of Nyakagyezi, Uganda has seen this vision through to fruition is amazing. All things being equal, he could have stopped there. He could have said, they have access to an education, I can go back to America a good, generous man. Enough.
However, the teachers began to report that children who at first came to the school bursting with energy were becoming exhausted and lethargic throughout the day. They typically walk 7 miles to school every day on one meal. They were malnourished and over worked.
The organization built Desire Farm and started a Nutrition Program. The children still have to walk for miles but they receive two nutritious meals from their own organic farm.
Again. Done. They can eat and learn. Problem solved.
Eventually, children were finding it difficult to attend school. Grandmothers were getting sick and someone had to care for them. Water had to be fetched and chores done every day. Our grandmothers on average care for 7 children orphaned by the death of their parents. We will talk about them in a minute.
The Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project built gravity fed water systems, bringing clean water to the people. CLEAN water. The water that would decrease illness in students and grandmothers. The water that would be closer, so chores would not interfere in class time.
At Nyaka and Kutamba School, they trade the school nurse for students. When a grandmother gets sick, the student reports to the school and sends the nurse on a home visit. The student can get an education and the grandmother can receive care from a trained professional.
By the way, the child most likely to stay home will be a girl. (Remind me to post about the "Pad Our Sisters" Project this month.
Our grandmothers....*sigh*
I love these women. They deal with greif, stress, age, illness and severe, suffocating poverty but they persevere. I have so much respect for this group of women. Jackson has said that we will not rest until our grandmothers do. I swear the same oath now. I spend my days selling their baskets. I am a little sad because we just hired an intern to take over the Grandmother Basket Project that has grown to be too big (yaay!) for me to handle along with my other duties (boooo!).
I am glad that we are covering causes on Tuesdays because I could write a novel...oh, wait...my boss did!
It's called The Price of Stones. Try to pick it up and read all about the way the organization began.
I will continue to fill you in on the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Project this month. Every Tuesday, I will focus on another bit. It's just too big and too amazing for one blog post.
I hope that is okay Tiff & Amanda? ;)
Okay, so the reason I am not going to repel? I have decided that instead of raising $500 for the city I love, I am going to try and raise $700 to build a grandmother a new home. I didn't mention that our organization builds homes, kitchens and latrines for the grandmothers did I? Well now you know why I need all month to tell you about Nyaka!
I can't show up in Uganda empty handed, now can I? It would be like showing up to a dinner party without a bottle of wine!
Today, I leave you with a video about the people we serve.
Love them. Pray for them. Give generously.
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